


idk what to title this

by blue_skie_s



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Other, Poor Man, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), just isolating himself bc guilt, man hes lonely, man💔
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_skie_s/pseuds/blue_skie_s
Summary: Y’know when you isolate yourself because of guilt?He’d know, he’s doing it right now.Jesus fuck, he’s a monster.
Relationships: just mentions of characters, nothing yet
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	idk what to title this

**Author's Note:**

> I DIDNT CHECK THIS ONE EITHER 💔

With a heavy sigh, Dream flips to the next page of the thick paperback notebook covered with different symbols and markings that the masked man would like to believe only he could read in the SMP. That was probably true, he’s fairly sure just about nobody here knows what Wingdings even  _ is, _ let alone how to read said language. It was what he usually would write in, to ensure nobody could read his notes or writings of different creatures or plants. Or anything, for that matter.

He begins writing a new entry, pencil carving the symbols of Wingdings 1 into the page as it glides across. Dream usually wrote with a mix of Wingdings 1, 2, and 3, always switching between each form of the language on every other page to make everything possibly more difficult to decode for another SMP member. It was more of a privacy-related act, honestly, since he’s known of the Wingdings language for at least half of his life, and it’s the easiest one to write in behind English. His parents taught him it, and he was grateful for that, for he could decently hide just about everything he wrote about.

“🙰□◆❒■♋● ♏■⧫❒⮹ 📂📄🖮📂 

♍◆❒❒♏■⧫●⮹ ♏⌧🞐♏❒♓🔾♏■⧫♓■♑ ⬥♓⧫♒ 🞐□⧫♓□■ ♓■♑❒♏♎♓♏■⧫⬧ ⧫□ 🔾♋🙵♏ ⬧⧫❒□■♑♏❒ □❒ ♍□🔾🞐●♏⧫♏●⮹ ■♏⬥ 🞐□⧫♓□■⬧📪 ♓⧫ ⬧♏♏🔾⬧ ⧫□ ♌♏ ♑□♓■♑ ⬥♏●● ♌◆⧫ ♓ ♍♋■■□⧫ ♌♏ ⬧◆❒♏📬 ⬥♓●● ◆🞐♎♋⧫♏ ♋⬧ ⬧□□■ ♋⬧ ♓ ♍♋■📬

-d.”

A soft  _ thump _ accompanies the motion of him closing the book a couple moments after he’s done with scribbling more Wingdings writing in the journal. This time he decided on using Wingdings 1, which he honestly hadn’t used in a while due to switching back and forth between 2 and 3. Oh well. 

He was usually sitting in his house or lab, one of the two. Otherwise, he was with someone in the SMP, although he practically never went out after the wars. Dream knew he himself felt guilty about it all, but he had no clue how to apologize, so he chose to just stay silent and slowly disappear. It works out for him, though, the SMP is probably calmer without his chaos. Which was fine.

All he was aware of for current events was that Tubbo was president, Tommy managed to get Cat back from Skeppy and the other Badlands members, Phil sided with L’manburg and helped rebuild everything after Wilbur pressed the button and exploded the whole area, Techno eventually snapped out of his murderous rampage and own crazed ideas and apparently started a potato farm in L’manburg, and Wilbur’s ghost built a house and now lives where the White House once stood tall and proud above Manburg, which was now practically just a memory to everyone and everything else.

Sounds pretty good, honestly. Nobody even noticed his absence.

Dream pushes his chair back and stands up, stretching his limbs and walking to the kitchen of his little underground home he’d made specifically to hide away. It  _ does  _ have a staircase up to the surface, but it's hidden under a lake decently far away from the SMP. The only way somebody would most likely find it was by luck, it was fairly hard to find the lab.

He yawns, gaze passing from cup to cup as he tries to decide which one to use for a mug of tea. After finally deciding on a simple green and white one, he lazily snatches up a box of chamomile tea bags, fishing a kettle out of one of the cupboards and filling it with a moderate amount of room-temperature water. It wasn’t that cold, him having squeezed a fireplace into his house after taking a short while to create a sort of mechanism to collect up the smoke. 

He wasn’t going to disclose the location of his hideaway today. No thank you.

Dream places the kettle onto the furnace and snags a piece of raw steak from a cooler nearby, sliding the hunk of meat into the furnace and starting a fire with coal, which in turn radiates heat and warms the small item on top of it holding water. He walks away from it after a moment, slinking back into the main room to just, honestly, contemplate his current existence.

“...well, I live underground and hidden from society, ran from a war I began, and am now making tea in a small kitchen under a pond, isolated and alone..” he mutters to himself unknowingly, fiddling with his sweatshirt’s sleeves as his mouth slowly curves downward into a saddened frown. Dream had found that he admittedly craved the warmth that he gained from the item of clothing, so he started making much larger and thicker sweatshirts for him to curl himself into. He’s pretty sure it’s because of a lack of physical contact, but he still wouldn’t be heading back to people that most definitely hated his guts just for his own gain.

With a lazy click, music from one of many albums he has begins playing, and he almost instantly recognizes the music from the album “404” by, if he remembers correctly, ‘ _ sayk_ _ ’. “Misanthropy” rings out throughout the room, and Dream subconsciously begins to bob his head slightly to the strange genre of music that he’d been starting to grow attached to, flopping into a small, makeshift beanbag resting on the floor in front of his little fireplace. His hand traces small shapes into the cushion, and he stares into the crackling flames in front of him. 

It reminds him of Sapnap burning the greenery and woodland resting peacefully outside of L’manburg’s old walls, the blazes of the war-affected man spreading and destroying everything in its unset pathway. It had burnt on down to a crisp, never fully stopping until every single living or standing being or thing was gone. Tensions had been high, and the arsonistic man had very obviously reached his limit, as shown by the scarred and barren land that used to be that forest.

He’s reminded of Eret standing in front of the burning podium after the election, a blank expression painting his entire face as the wood turns to a dark, fire-made black, slowly collapsing in on itself as the flames lick and eat up the structure that the election and its results had taken place on. The reminder of that series of events makes his stomach churn ever so slightly, Wilbur and Tommy’s banishment almost fresh in his memory as if it was merely a day ago. 

He watched the beginning of the revolution. He fought alongside Schlatt for nearly an hour before dropping the act of confidence and fleeing from the place as a whole, which nobody even happened to  _ notice. _ Not even Sapnap or George saw or have commented on it, and that was probably saying something considering how observant and caring they looked to be.

_ It’s karma _ , he assumes.  _ Karma for every bad thing he’s done.  _

_ You deserve to be forgotten, Dream. _

He knew it well, so he always wasted his life away in his laboratory, hiding away the nether portal he created to collect potion items and scanning the forest around multiple times a day to discover any new or interesting plants or things, of which he’d usually jot down in, once again, Wingdings, before immediately hiding himself away again. He usually kept his notes of different species and stuff in Wingdings 1 to make it a bit easier for himself to read without getting utterly confused and lost while reading over everything.

He’s noticed the little things that were happening to himself. His voice was raspier, he was beginning to get thinner the more he works in the lab, he was definitely not getting enough sleep, but he really didn’t care to do anything about said things. It wouldn’t matter much in the long run. Dream was most likely just forgotten, him actually perma-dying wouldn’t affect much in the lives of everyone else in the SMP. He was already hiding away, for fucks sake. He’s been hiding for over  _ two months _ .

Dream sighs, blinking away a few tears and standing back up to go take the now whistling kettle off of the warm furnace. He grabs it by the handle and sets it on the counter, lingering by the furnace for a couple moments and relishing in the radiating warmth. It was nowhere near a hug or any form of actual physical contact, but anything’s better than just waltzing back to people who know him as their worst enemy just for a simple hug. He’s a monster, who’d want to interact with him in  _ any way at all? _

He pulls the now cooked steak from the inside of the furnace, putting out the flame inside and snatching up a fork and knife and silently biting into the steak, humming flatly before practically rushing to eat it all so he can get back to working. He pauses for a split second to put a teabag in the mug and pour some of the steaming hot water in it, but immediately goes back to basically inhaling the steak. He had to  _ experiment _ , to  _ work _ , to distract himself to feel alive or remotely happy, even if it was only temporarily.

He tosses his dish into the small sink and grabs his tea, pretty much just chugging the hot drink. It burns his tongue, but he’s okay with that. It’s only temporary. Dream soon just tosses that in the sink, too, scooping up his journal and pen before trudging up the thin staircase that leads to the surface. 

Back to work he goes. 


End file.
